Open Eyes
by Lucinda
Summary: Remy contemplates Rogue, post Antarctica. Pgpg 13 for angst & abandonment. A few bad words.
1. Open Eyes

author: Lucinda  
rating: pg, angst.  
main character: Remy thinking on Rogue  
disclaimer: Nobody from Marvel belongs to me.  
distribution: please ask first.  
note: post Antarctica  
  
  
Wrapping the large towel closer around his body, feeling as if his bones were still cold, Remy settled a bit closer to the fire. He stared into the heart of the flames as if seeking something, some secret wisdom or knowledge that would make everything clear to him. He held one hand out, fingers spread, the flames nearly licking his flesh as he sought to pull it's warmth into himself.  
  
The fact that the sand he was crouched on had been warmed all day under the Caribbean summer sun was not a deterrent for him. Nor the fact that everyone else was in shorts and swimsuits while he huddled by the fire that had been set for the barbeque that night. Honestly, he wasn't certain if it was true cold he was feeling or just the memory of the cold, but he just... couldn't feel warm any more.  
  
His mind kept returning to HER. He'd loved her, or tried to love her. He'd changed his behavior, stopped stealing, been as loyal as any woman could ever ask, all for the sake of one woman, a curvaceous mutant with a white streak in her chestnut hair. She called herself Rogue, and had left her childhood behind her, leaving only a shadow of the child she'd once been. Then, she'd joined the X-Men, leaving her past behind once again, the past of a terrorist, a wanted criminal who had caused damage, fear, and the near death of a superhero.  
  
She'd started over, re-making herself from Rogue of Mystique's Brotherhood to Rogue of the X-Men. And everyone accepted this, gave her the occasional nod of having 'turned her life around'. Sympathized with how terrible it must have been to have Mystique as a mother. Welcomed her with open arms and teary eyes.  
  
But he'd been given no such opportunity. Would it have been different if he'd proclaimed his crimes, declaring them with a thick accent and copious amounts of tears? Would a show of repentance have bought him the acceptance that it had gained her?  
  
He'd just wanted a chance to start over. No more than anyone else had asked for. And for a while, it had almost felt like he'd be allowed to try to earn a place on the team, to earn their trust. To earn acceptance.  
  
Part of him wondered if his pursuit of Rogue had been a subconscious effort on his part to blend. He'd been reading people and trying to make use of that information for so long that he hardly even noticed anymore. Had his subconscious and old habits concluded that if he had some feelings, some easily interpreted desire for one of the women that he would be more easily allowed to stay? Had he chosen Rogue because, while comely and a bit flamboyant, she was the untouchable, unattainable goal? Had he pursued her solely to carve out a place among the teams? He thought that the feelings were genuine, at least at the end...  
  
Of all the people at the mansion, both on and associated with the X-Men, he would have thought that Rogue would have understood the desire to move away from the past. She'd been running from hers so fast and so hard that the woman didn't even use a name! But she hadn't understood, hadn't offered even the tiniest shred of compassion. She'd ranted and shrieked like a banshee, claiming that he'd betrayed her, that he'd lied about his past.  
  
Truth be told, he simply hadn't volunteered things about his past, leaving things unmentioned, unknown. Come to think of it, wasn't that the exact same thing that she had done?  
  
But he'd been condemned for his silences. Cast aside by the woman who'd only hours declared her love with eyes shining with tears, whispered about her fear that something terrible would happen to them, pleaded for him to hold her close, to help chase away her fears and worries...  
  
No! He had to stop thinking about her like that. If any of that had been real, she couldn't have abandoned him to the ice. So, the only part of her that could have been real was the cold, bitter woman that had left him to die, had judged him as guilty, as a killer without hope of redemption. Certainly not the actions of a woman in love. Not even the actions of a woman with the slightest measure of respect for him.  
  
Never again would he permit his emotions to be swayed by her sparkling eyes or buxom figure. Never again would he let her honeyed voice persuade him to try something, or arrange a small favor. She had betrayed him, betrayed her 'love', his trust, and the whole damn 'second chance' theory of Xavier's that she'd clutched at so desperately for herself. Rogue was a hypocritical, deceitful, judgmental...  
  
He didn't love her anymore. He was almost certain that he'd loved her then, but anything that had been there before, any compassion, respect, or trust was gone, frozen into broken shards in Antarctica.  
  
Part of him still cried out, demanding to know WHY. Why had she betrayed his trust, why had she left him to die? Why had she rejected his feelings, declaring that he didn't love her, didn't know how to love? What gave her the right to pass judgment on the existence of his feelings?  
  
It didn't matter why. Rogue didn't matter anymore. The X-Men didn't matter, let them keep Rogue the former terrorist minion and near murderer and Joseph the youthened Magneto the mutant supremist. He could survive without them.  
  
If he could only get warm again...  
  
end Open Eyes. 


	2. Open Eyes2: Lost Soul

Open Eyes 2: Lost Soul  
  
author: Lucinda  
rating: pg, angst.  
main character: Remy   
sequel to Open Eyes.  
disclaimer: Nobody from Marvel belongs to me.  
distribution: please ask first.  
note: post Antarctica, angsty  
  
  
  
He sat there through the day, huddled near the fire, hoping to pull in enough warmth that he felt comfortable again. As the temperatures soared, finally crossing ninety, he stopped shivering, sighing in what could almost be mistaken for pleasure. He still crouched near the fire, the flickering flames casting ominous highlights over him, reflecting on his pale skin, a mottled mingling of peachy and grayish, a lingering sign of the killing cold of Antarctica.  
  
"Hey man, you think you about thawed yet?" One of the men who'd helped dig the fire pit in the early hours of the morning, a some what worried college student who'd been trying to figure out the stranger almost sitting in the fire all day, spoke. His voice was nervous a sign of his certainty that something wasn't right with this man.  
  
Remy looked up, his eyes pits of utter blackness, without white or gleam, darkness that swallowed up the firelight. "No... Remy still be cold. But maybe I starting to thaw out a bit."  
  
Almost hesitantly, one of the other people, a young looking girl that might have been anywhere from fifteen to twenty, her tanned skin beaded with sweat and her sable hair falling in loose curls to her shoulders looked at him. "Oh.. your eyes. They're... empty."  
  
He gave a small shrug. "Never been told they looked empty before... they always tell me got hellfire in my eyes."  
  
"Dude... if that's the case, something put the fire out." The surfer looked as if he'd been washed and worn by the water, a study in gold and bronze.  
  
"Maybe that's why I'm so cold then..." He reached out, the fire dancing over his hand for a few moments before he pulled it back, not wanting the blanket to burn.  
  
"I thought..." This was one of the other people, a serious looking darker woman that reminded him a bit of a blend between Stormy and Betsy. "I thought the eyes were supposed to be the windows to the soul."  
  
"I offered her everything... my life, my heart, my soul. She t'rew it all away, t'rew me away. Left me out in the cold..." Remy's words were soft, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "I think... maybe de soul still back there, lost in the snow, feeling hurt and betrayed by her. Jus' a lost soul now..."  
  
"That's harsh, man." The surfer spoke again, his voice carrying in the now quiet air.  
  
"Are you sure that you shouldn't... maybe a doctor would do more good than a fire?" The girl again, looking distinctly uneasy.  
  
"Non... no doctor. Everyt'ing still here, an' moves. Anything else will heal. If I can just stop feeling so cold... Never break up in de middle of howling snow. It can be very bad for you." Remy shuddered at the rippling surge of memories. Rogue, laughing, sleeping, shouting at him... endless vistas of ice, rock and snow, obscured by walls of falling snow and wind... an ice-shrouded coast, with a large boat.  
  
"You look... not to healthy." The serious woman again, the guardian of the cold drinks.  
  
"Remy be just a lost soul now... nobody cares about the lost souls. If dey cared... I wouldn't have been left there. Got nothing to go back too... jus' lost." Remy stared into the fire, not wanting to see everyone around him, their joy, their togetherness...  
  
"Maybe it's time someone started to care." A man's voice. Remy couldn't even muster the interest to look at the speaker's face.  
  
Remy gave a small smile, the expression oddly painful. "Long past time for someone to care. What if de next lost soul be someone you know? Your bother, your daughter... Who will be there for them? Who will help them back up when they fall..."  
  
One of the men reached out, his hand brushing lightly over Remy's shoulder. "If we don't care, who will? You're right... But, maybe we can help you."  
  
"Prob'ly not." Remy was still hunched near the fire, but now he looked at the people. "Some sorts of lost you never get over."  
  
As Ben walked to his truck to get another bag of potato chips, he shook his hand, which felt cold and numb from where he'd rested it for such a brief period of time against Remy's shoulder. As if he'd put his hand on ice...  
  
Remy stayed there, almost joining in the event. He passed things around, even had a bit of food himself, although he didn't drink any of the cold beer. He'd almost seemed to smile a few times.  
  
In the morning, he was gone, the blanket in a depression near the fire. Ben was reminded uneasily of the ghost stories he'd heard as a child, of someone picking up a lonely hitch-hiker, only to learn their guest had been dead for years. He'd never believed such things possible... but Remy had looked so lost, so... hopeless. And how could a man be cold after spending the whole day next to a fire under the blistering ninety degree sun?  
  
end Lost Soul. 


End file.
